Chapter 31

Rose felt as if her whole body had gone cold, her skin tingling with the strange, electric numbness that sometimes comes before the fall. The room around her seemed distant, like she was submerged beneath water. Her voice cracked as she asked, barely above a whisper, "Is he going to die?"

Lucinda didn't answer right away.

Rose turned to her sharply, her voice rising, desperate. "Is he going to die, Lucinda?"

Lucinda swallowed hard, her hands clenched tightly in her lap. "I… There is a chance he might not make it," she said gently, but even her gentleness could not cushion the blow.

That was it. That was the moment Rose broke.

Her breath hitched, then came in short, uneven gasps. The tears finally broke through, hot and relentless, as her whole body folded forward. Her fingers dug into her knees, her shoulders trembling.

"I hated him," she sobbed, the words spilling out unfiltered. "I hated him for leaving. I told him I would never forgive him. I said awful things. I didn't mean any of it, but I said it anyway. What if—what if those are the last things he ever hears from me?"

Lucinda leaned in and wrapped her arms around her, letting Rose cry, not trying to hush her or fix anything. Just holding her, the way a mother might hold a daughter in the middle of a nightmare.

"I was so angry," Rose gasped. "I filled my days with other things. I tried to pretend I didn't care anymore, but I did—I do. God, he cannot die, Lucinda. He just can't."

Lucinda's voice was soft but sure. "He's a fighter, Rose. Always has been."

Rose sat upright, her eyes swollen, face damp. "I need to go to him. I need to see him. Even if he is already…" She couldn't finish her sentence.

"There's a train," Lucinda said as she nodded her head. "It leaves tomorrow morning. First light. I'll help you pack."

Rose nodded, wiping her face with the sleeve of her blouse, her breaths coming slower now, steadier. She looked down at her hands and whispered, "If I lose him, Lucinda… I don't know how I'll live with it."

"Let's get your things, dear."

The train station was bustling, a swirl of activity with people hurrying to and fro, preparing for the day ahead. But to Rose, it felt as though everything had slowed down. The noise around her became muffled, like she was moving through a dream, and her heart beat so loud in her chest that it drowned out any sound of the outside world.

She had spent a restless night, too anxious and overwhelmed by the news of Jack to sleep. The thought of him—of what he might be going through, alone, sick, and far away—had gnawed at her all night long, keeping her awake. There were too many questions, too many what-ifs. She didn't even know if she'd make it in time. The possibility of him slipping away while she was still on a train, helpless and miles away from him, was a constant terror.

She'd barely eaten, barely packed. She only grabbed what she could, boarding the first train she could find that would take her east. She didn't know how long it would take, how many days she would spend traveling, how many hours she would stare out of the window wondering if she would be too late.

And then, just as she was about to board, a familiar voice broke through her thoughts.

"Rose!"

She spun around, startled, her breath catching in her throat as she saw John making his way toward her, cutting through the crowd. His face was a mixture of confusion and concern, his brow furrowed, his body moving with urgency as he walked swiftly toward her. Her heart ached at the sight of him. She hadn't seen him since the engagement, and the sight of him now—so full of emotion, his worry so evident—made the ache in her chest grow.

"Rose, what on earth are you doing?" he asked, his voice tight, as he came to stand in front of her, breathless.

"I have to go to Philadelphia," she said, her voice barely a whisper, her hands trembling as she clutched the train ticket in her hand. "Jack... Jack is dying."

The words hung in the air, the weight of them making everything else seem so distant. Her eyes blurred with unshed tears as she looked at him, the reality of what she was doing—of leaving so suddenly, with no certainty of anything, no clear understanding of what awaited her—hitting her all at once.

"Jack?" John repeated, his expression hardening. "I thought he was in France."

"He was supposed to leave this week," Rose explained, her voice shaky. "But just before he left, he got sick. He's caught scarlet fever, John. It's bad... really bad. And he's alone. I have to go to him. I don't know what else to do."

John's face darkened, his jaw clenching as he absorbed the news. Then, his voice dropped, tinged with a quiet disbelief. "So you're crossing the country to see a dying man?"

"Yes," she said simply, the finality of the answer hanging between them. Her chest tightened, but she refused to cry. "I have to. I can't just sit here and do nothing."

John shook his head, the frustration in his eyes growing. "Rose, this is madness. You've already waited for him for so long. And now you're going to drop everything—again—and go to him? What if—what if you get there and he's already gone?" His voice cracked, a barely concealed rawness leaking through.

Her heart sank at his words. She'd thought about that every moment since she'd received the news. What if she was too late? What if he was already gone? What if she never got the chance to say goodbye?

But before she could speak, John reached out, grabbing her arm. His hand was warm, steady, but his eyes held something else entirely—something desperate, something pleading.

"Let me take you home, Rose," he said softly, the words a mix of pain and helplessness. "I'll wait with you for any news."

His plea cut through her, and for a moment, she felt like she might stay—like she might change her mind and turn back from the train and stay in his arms. The thought of leaving him, of going to Jack, of tearing herself away from a life that had been so comfortable and promising, felt like a betrayal to John. And yet, at the same time, it felt like the only thing she could do.

"That's the thing, John. I can't wait. Please, I have to do this."

Her hands trembled as she reached for the door to the train, but before she could step inside, John was there. He pulled her towards him, his arms strong and desperate as he kissed her—fiercely, passionately, like it was the only thing he knew how to do to make her stay.

She froze for a moment, caught off guard, but then, instinctively, she melted into him. It wasn't just a kiss; it was a moment of everything unspoken—the love, the pain, the frustration, the hope—poured out in a single act. The warmth of his lips against hers, the way he held her like he was afraid she might vanish into thin air, told her everything she needed to know about how much he cared.

When he pulled away, he looked at her, his hand still on her face, his thumb brushing over her cheek. "Write to me when you've arrived," he whispered, his voice raw, vulnerable. "Please. Just... write. Let me know you're okay."

Rose nodded, unable to speak for a moment. Her heart ached, torn between the two men who had each held a piece of her heart.

"I will," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I promise."

And with that, she stepped onto the train, the doors closing behind her with a final, heavy thud. John stood on the platform, watching her disappear, his figure slowly fading from view as the train began to move. She pressed her face to the glass, her heart pounding in her chest.

The train hissed to a stop in the heart of Philadelphia, its final whistle piercing through the fog of fatigue and nerves that had settled over Rose during the four-day journey. Her body ached from sitting so long, her eyes heavy from lack of sleep, but it was her heart that bore the heaviest weight. The moment her shoes hit the platform, the memories rushed in like a tide she had no defence against.

She had sworn never to return here.

The city looked the same—gray stone buildings, sharp-angled streets, the constant buzz of trolleys and hurried footsteps. But something in her had changed so profoundly that she felt like a ghost in her own past. The air smelled like soot and cold metal and the faint sweetness of roasted peanuts from a vendor nearby. It hadn't changed. Not even a little. It was as if the city had been waiting for her.

She remained still on the platform, her gloved hands tight around the handle of her small suitcase. She'd kept her hat low, scarf tight, hoping to go unnoticed. The scent of coal and hot metal mingled with something else entirely: fear. What if someone recognized her? What if this city still remembered her scandal, her disappearance, the way she'd vanished without a trace? Her stomach twisted, a familiar nausea rising in her throat.

Then, out of the crowd, a figure moved with purpose.

He was tall and lean, his white-blond hair catching the sun that filtered through the station's iron beams. He wore a neatly pressed uniform and walked with the uprightness of someone who'd only recently learned discipline, and not quite learned to wear it comfortably. His eyes—icy blue, sharp—locked onto hers from across the way. For a moment she thought maybe he'd mistaken her for someone else, but then he changed direction, weaving easily through the crowd until he stood right in front of her.

"You must be Miss Williams," he said, his voice young but composed. He was barely older than Jack, though his eyes looked older than they should, "I'm Carl Levinson."

"I am," she said, her voice soft and hoarse from days of dust and train smoke. "But please… call me Rose."

Carl smiled gently, then reached for her suitcase without hesitation. "Lucinda told us you might come. I wasn't sure you would… but I'm glad you did."

She blinked quickly. "How is he?"

Carl's eyes shifted downward, his jaw tightening just a little. "We'll talk on the way."

That alone told her enough.

They moved together toward the station's entrance. Rose walked half a step behind him, watching the people pass by. The city smelled the same—gritty, busy, alive. And despite the years she had spent away, it still pressed against her ribs like a cage. Yet Carl's presence, quiet and unassuming, anchored her.

"How did you recognize me?" she asked after a while.

He gave a soft laugh. "Jack has always had a sketch of you on his nightstand. I knew your face the moment I saw you."

Rose's chest tightened, and she didn't answer. They passed the iron gates and stepped outside. The noise of the street hit her like a wave—horse hooves, the whistle of a trolley, voices shouting over each other. Life went on. Her life, somewhere in between past and future, hung suspended.

Carl guided her toward a waiting car, his hand gentle on her back as they crossed the cobblestones.

"He's at St. Luke's," Carl said, opening the door for her. "We'll be there in fifteen minutes."

As the car jostled along the uneven streets, Rose leaned forward in her seat, her hands balled tightly in her lap, her nerves stretched thinner with every passing second. The buildings of Philadelphia rushed past the window in a gray blur, the noise of the city muffled behind the glass, but inside the car her voice sliced through the silence.

"Carl," she said suddenly, sharply, "I need to know. Don't spare me the details—how is he, really?"

Carl hesitated. His fingers tensed on the brim of his cap, the weight of the question landing hard.

"I won't lie to you," he said slowly, turning to face her. "There was a moment… a few days ago… we thought he'd pulled through. The fever had broken. He was awake, even asked for water. It was the first time we'd seen him sit up in days. But…" His voice faltered for a breath. "It came back early this morning. Harder. They say that happens sometimes, that the body weakens before it fights one last time."

Rose felt her chest contract, a tight, breathless pain pushing behind her ribs.

"He's unconscious now?" she asked, her voice hoarse.

Carl nodded. "Hasn't opened his eyes since dawn. Vincent's with him now. We take turns. We don't want him to be alone."

Rose's lips trembled, but she pressed them shut, blinking fast.

"How the hell did this happen?" she asked, barely containing the shake in her voice. "Wasn't he supposed to leave for France this week?"

Carl nodded again, slower this time, eyes heavy with guilt and helplessness. "He was. It was the final week of training. They put him in a new room—there were too many boys arriving, not enough beds. His new roommate, Harris, came down with a fever on the second day. They didn't know what it was until it was too late. By the time they'd quarantined the floor, Jack and another boy, Michael, had already started showing symptoms."

"And where are they now?" she asked, though her gut already knew the answer.

Carl exhaled. "Michael passed away the night before last."

Rose looked away sharply, her gaze catching on a row of trees blurred by motion. The sound of the streetcar bell rang in the distance. For a long beat, she didn't speak.

"God," she whispered.

Carl glanced at her. "They say Jack's stronger. His lungs… they've held on so far. But he's lost so much weight. It's like the fever ate through him."

What felt like hours later, he held the door open for her, and Rose stepped into the hushed, sterile corridor of the hospital. The scent of antiseptic hit her immediately—sharp, clean, and cold. Her shoes echoed on the tiled floor as she followed Carl down the long hallway, past curtained partitions and half-open doors. The air felt still, like the entire building was holding its breath.

Up ahead, a man sat slouched in a wooden chair just outside a room, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together like he was praying—or trying not to fall apart. He was shorter than Carl, but stockier, his shoulders broad and tense beneath his wrinkled uniform shirt. A few strands of dark hair fell across his forehead. He looked up as they approached, fatigue written deep into the lines of his face.

"Vincent," Carl called gently, and the man stood, straightening up quickly.

"Why aren't you with him?" Carl asked, his voice lowered out of respect—or fear.

"The nurses are doing some checkups," Vincent said, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes flicking toward the door. "They told me to wait outside for a bit. But it's time anyways."

Then his gaze landed on Rose. He blinked as if trying to make sense of her presence, then his eyes softened with something close to recognition.

"You're Rose," he said.

"I am," she replied, her voice quiet but steady. "And you must be Vincent."

He nodded, stepping forward and holding out his hand. "He talked about you. All the time. I'm glad you're here."

Carl and Vincent stood side by side, their uniforms pressed but rumpled from long nights spent in the hospital's hard chairs. The weight of what was to come hung heavy in the air, and Rose could feel it. The low hum of the hospital faded into the background as the two young men fell silent, exchanging a look that said more than words could.

Then Carl reached into his pocket and pulled out a small brass key, holding it out to her in his open palm.

"This is from our apartment," he said softly, the metal glinting in the dim light of the hallway. "In case you need a place to stay while you're here."

Rose stared at the key, her fingers hesitating for a moment before she took it. "Are… are you leaving?"

Carl nodded slowly. "We have to go to New York. Our ship's waiting. We leave tonight."

Rose's stomach turned. The idea of these two kind, steady men being swept into the chaos of a war that already felt too close—it left her breathless. "How will I be able to contact you?"

"We're not sure yet," Vincent replied, his voice quiet but firm. "We've been told letters will be forwarded, but where we'll be sent… well, that's up to the army now."

For a moment, none of them spoke. The silence wrapped around them like a shroud, filled with things that didn't need to be said: fear, hope, uncertainty. Then, without thinking, Rose stepped forward and wrapped her arms around the both of them. Carl froze for a second, then hugged her back, and Vincent followed suit, one hand resting gently between her shoulder blades.

"I cannot thank you enough," she said, her voice muffled by the weight of emotion. "Not just for taking care of him, but for staying. For being there when I couldn't."

"He would've done the same for us." Vincent murmured.

Rose pulled back slightly, her eyes brimming with tears again. "Please… take care of yourselves. Promise me that."

"We'll try," Carl said, his lips twitching into the faintest smile. "You take care of him now."

"I will," she whispered.

They stepped back slowly, as if unwilling to let go of the moment. Then Carl gave her one last nod, Vincent touched the brim of his cap in farewell, and the two of them turned to walk down the hallway, their boots heavy on the tile.

Rose watched them go until they disappeared around the corner. Then she looked down at the key in her hand and closed her fingers tightly around it.

Two nurses walked out of the room, murmuring softly between themselves as they closed the door with a gentle click. Rose rose from the bench in an instant, her heart thudding, her legs moving before her thoughts could catch up.

"Can I see him now?" she asked, breathless.

One of the nurses looked up, her expression kind but firm. "Visiting hour is over, miss. Mr. Dawson needs to rest."

"Please," Rose said quickly, a note of desperation cracking through her voice. Her hands trembled slightly as she raised one of them, revealing her ring. "I'm his fiancée."

The nurses paused. Something in the way she said it—raw, desperate, honest—must have stirred something, because the older nurse gave a small sigh.

"Just for a few minutes, miss," she said softly.

Rose nodded quickly, whispering a breathless thank you before slipping past them and into the room, her pulse fluttering in her throat like a bird trying to escape its cage.

The room was still and dim, lit only by the soft gray glow of the fading afternoon through the half-drawn curtains. There was a sharp scent of antiseptic in the air, tinged with something warm and unsettling—fever and illness, perhaps. The silence was pierced only by the quiet ticking of a monitor, and the faint, irregular rasp of breathing.

Then she saw him.

Jack lay motionless in the bed, sunken into the white sheets like a ghost of the man she once knew. His skin was pale, almost waxen, and glistened faintly with sweat. His once-vivid eyes were shut, lashes resting dark against his cheeks. The shape of his collarbones was more prominent than it should've been, his chest barely rising beneath the blankets.

Rose's breath caught. For a moment she couldn't move. She had tried so hard to prepare herself during the long journey across the country—telling herself over and over again that he'd look weak, that he'd be changed—but nothing had readied her for this. Carefully, she walked to his bedside and lowered herself into the chair beside him. Her knees felt fragile, her heart even more so.

"Hi, Jack," she whispered.

He didn't stir.

Her eyes filled with tears as she reached out and gently took his hand in hers. It was warm—too warm—and his fingers, once strong and nimble, now lay limp in her grasp. She looked down at the fine bones beneath his skin, the light freckles along his wrist, the small faded scar on his knuckle.

"It's Rose. I'm here now," she said, voice trembling. "I'm so sorry it took me this long."

Nothing.